


gotta hold on

by jazzonia



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Disability, Disabled Character, Masturbation, Other, Self-cest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-21
Updated: 2015-04-21
Packaged: 2018-03-25 01:37:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3791788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jazzonia/pseuds/jazzonia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt's senses aren't always a bad kind of distraction. He's got a boxer’s grip, a musician’s finesse, and live-wire skin.</p><p>Or: three hundred words of masturbatory Matt!porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	gotta hold on

He learned how to tune things out very early. It took a few weeks of sleepless nights, strung out on dozens of sirens and dog barks and car horns, before he could ignore enough of the outside world to stay asleep. New York had always smelled strong, so that he could handle, and the lukewarm cafeteria food the orphanage served didn’t have much taste to begin with.

But, oh, how he _felt._ Sheets, clothes, wind, and heat all had new meaning. Even his own hand— _especially_ his own hand—was almost enough to make him grateful for his lot. 

Even now, pushing thirty, nothing can match it. Nothing else approaches this cacophony of touch: the subtle scrape of his calluses, the rub of the new scar on his index finger. He feels every hangnail, every bruise, every ghost of a breeze across the silky skin of his dick. A boxer’s grip meets a musician’s finesse to light up live-wire skin.

Best of all, though, is the finish. It swells almost like an orchestra: the individual sensations melting back, folding into a rising current, building to a crescendo of the very best kind of tension. He likes to skate along that edge for as long as he can, suspended by minute changes in pressure, until tumbling over into—

Silence.

As he comes, shouting, it’s all that exists. Silence is all he can hear and feel and taste. Nothing else overwhelms all his channels in this way, overrides all his senses. _Silence_ isn’t even the right word. It’s more like… 

“Oblivion,” Matt murmurs. 

He opens his eyes, red pulsing light filtering into his vision, and rolls over onto a cooler stretch of sheets. Within moments the rest returns: the hum of his fridge, the ache between his shoulders, the pulling of two hundred expert stitches healing across his torso and arms. 

It’s just a moment, sure, but these days that’s good enough.


End file.
